


Private

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Genderfluid!Harold, M/M, Reveal Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-04-11 23:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4456436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a three second pause, a heartbeat in which everything you know falls to pieces. In which you understand why people say that forever is not necessarily considered to be very long time wise as seen from the outside.<br/>Those three seconds feel like being stabbed in the chest, like being bludgeoned with a truncheon.<br/>Those three seconds ache and burn and leave behind them a feeling of bottomless fear and desperation, and when they are over, there is nothing left but scorching freedom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talkingtothesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/gifts).



> Pronouns will shift between masculine and feminine in accordance with how Harold is feeling. Please contact me if that is confusing to you or if you want me to clarify things. :)

It was a mild spring morning, and Harold was on the way to the park, wondering about getting an iced tea later that day and breathing in the fresh air.

Harold had woken up feeling distinctly more female than male, and done what she usually did when such a thing would happen. Which might be invisible to everyone else, or at least not something they would notice, but she would know of them and that would help.

She would put on her glasses and move her legs carefully as her hip was stiff from the night towards the edge of the bed. Then she stood up and limped to the bathroom, where she washed her face and fixed her hair so that it was slightly parted instead of sticking straight up.  
After going to the bathroom, she selected some stiped socks in a deep red as well as a dark tie with a subtle floral pattern to go with her suit of the day, which was dark grey. She reached into the cupboard and found a small flask of perfume behind the aftershaves and put a little behind her ears. It had a clean scent, reminisent of clear skies and the beginning of spring with just a hint of roses and lime.  
It was barely anything, she thought as she ate her yogurt at the small table in the kitchen of this safehouse, but it was as much as she dared to allow herself.  
It had been this way all her life, as far as she could remember. As she hurried out the door and began walking down the street, discomforted by the fact that Bear was not by her side, guarding her.  
She sat down on the bench in the park where John had agreed to meet her, and pulled out a small book from her bag, but before she could begin to read she heard the familiar sound of Bear trying his best not to misbehave and pull his leash because of his exitement to meet her. It was a losing battle.  
„Good morning, Harold,“ John said and sat down beside her, tossing a treat in Bear‘s direction for behaving well and greeting Harold politely by touching her healthy leg with his snout. „Is that a new aftershave??  
„Not exactly,“ Harold said, petting Bear, who looked pleased. Sometimes she forgot that John used to be an international spy.  
„It smells nice,“ John said, handing her a steaming cup of Sencha green tea in a casual manner. She could feel John looking at her, but when she turned to look at him, his expression was fond.  
She had never told John about being genderfluid. In fact, she had never told anyone about it. In college, on days like this when she had felt bolder, she supposed was the best term, she would sometimes wear clothing that hinted at femininity, or borrow a perfume. People would mostly ask if it was laundry day or if Harold had been working on a project with female classmates. Nathan had never said anything, just looked curiously at Harold and refrained from ever saying anything. It was a matter of privacy, Harold told herself as John walked beside her, smelling like pastries and gunpowder and expensive shaving cream. But sometimes she wanted to to expose this part of her, sometimes it felt like something that she could do, a possibilty that had never really existed in her life before.  
They arrived at the Library, where Shaw was sitting in one of the chairs, holding a sparkling new tennis ball for Bear, who ran towards her and sat down, wagging his tail in exitement over Shaw‘s presence as well as the new toy.  
The new number was a millionare named Sebastian Karlson, who owned a huge investment company which was doing well. The problem was that there were loads of people who wanted him dead.  
„Looks like we are going to arrange a meeting with Mr Karlson in a few hours,“ Harold said lightly as John picked up his gun and Shaw grinned when she saw the picture of the man on one of the computer screens. Harold continued typing as her collegues talked between themselves, wondering if the Number was a perp or a victim.  
“You need to look good for this meeting, right?” Shaw asked, looking at Finch’s bespoke suit and the polished wooden cane she had picked up from the umbrella stand near the door.”You are some rich, prissy investor.”  
“Indeed,” Finch had replied, looking at Shaw, who was digging around for something in her bag. “What are you doing, Miss Shaw?”  
Shaw was holding a large silver makeup bag and took out several pencils, what looked like a paintbrush and an eye shadow palette.  
“You look like you haven’t slept in weeks, Finch,” she said, “I am just going to make you look less tired.”  
Harold stared at the small object in her hand that looked more like lipstick than anything else.  
“It is just some concealer,” Shaw said when she saw the look Harold was giving her. Finch closed her eyes. She had watched videos online and read magazines with articles on how to apply makeup, but she had always opted out of the practice, worried about getting it wrong or something else she refused to think about.  
She kept her eyes closed, and only opened them when Shaw had apparently finished her work. But when Shaw came into view she was opening the eye shadow palette and looking thoughtful. She did something that felt like a whisper across Harold’s eyebrows, and nodded to herself when Harold opened her eyes.

This number turned out to be one of the easy ones, and one of the employees had complimented Harold on the definition of her eyebrows, which Harold had not known what to do about, and had settled for looking flustered.  
She had looked at herself in the windows as Shaw and Reese had walked on either side of her, chatting happily about how much ass they had kicked in such a small timeframe. The makeup looked nice, Harold thought as she looked at it. It was subtle, but she could see the difference it made.  
Shaw was licking her ice cream cone and Reese was holding Bear’s leash. Bear himself was carrying his new toy in his mouth, ecstatic to be on a walk with so many of the people he loved. When they returned to the library, Harold did not wash the makeup off. Perhaps that was a tiny victory.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot that I had this ready in my drafts file. Here you go, everyone!

Harold was looking happy, John thought as they walked beside each other on the sidewalk, Finch telling him about the history of the dog park they had just left. It was almost a week later, and Finch was wearing a new, soft-looking waistcoat underneath his coat, looking more dapper than he had in some time. Bear was trotting along beside Harold, panting and glancing at the two men. Finch had smelled like clear skies again two days ago and John had gone out of his way to compliment Harold again, which had made Harold’s ears turn faintly pink. 

However, today was a Bad Pain Day, John thought as Finch took John’s arm after whispering something like: “would you mind?”  
And John had shaken his head and slowed his pace. There was barely a ten minute walk to his apartment, and he could drive to the Library to fetch the wheelchair if it would be necessary. Finch’s limp had been more pronounced than usual these past few hours, and there had been times when he had physically leaned on John during the short stakeout in order to rest. John had wrapped his arm around Harold’s shoulders, which had the added effect of people around them assuming that they were just two men on a walk with their dog.

“I have some ibuprofen in my pocket, Harold,” John said quietly, “if you want to take some. I do not have your medication in my apartment, even if I have some strong painkillers and a big first aid kit.”  
Harold patted the leather computer bag he was carrying in his other hand, and squeezed John’s arm.  
“I took some earlier this evening, John. The stronger medication I have will leave me rather woozy, I must warn you,” Finch said as they continued walking at a steady pace. Bear whined, looking at Harold’s face and stepping closer to him.  
They had just finished an undercover assignment, which has just been hard enough to be fun. John hoped that they would get a good night’s rest before the next Number came up. He would stay up until Harold fell asleep, out of habit.  
Shaw caught up with them, her eyes gleaming as she slung a large black backpack over her shoulder.  
“Root’s tying up some loose ends,” she said as Harold punched in the code so that they could enter the Library. “I can’t believe that Karlson-guy can get himself in so much trouble in a few weeks.”  
“Not everyone has good security habits,” Harold replied,” he also treated his employees and coworkers badly if they did not behave in a way that he agreed with, such as being openly married to someone of the same sex or having an androgynous haircut.”  
“No wonder that so many people wanted to throw him off that bridge,” Shaw said, and Bear woofed in agreement.  
“Well,” Reese said, “if he had not tried to fire one of the most promising scientists in the world for getting married to her girlfriend of three decades and then tried to kill the people who found out that he was going to fire her for that, he would not have been in any trouble at all.”  
“That reminds me,” Shaw said, “I have something for you. One of the technical editors who thought you and John were planning your honeymoon when you went into the wrong company said that it was a gift for you, for helping her out.”  
Shaw handed the large package to Harold, who took it, looking puzzled as Shaw said something about Root promising her some good steak and waving goodbye. They watched Shaw leave, and continued walking.  
“She was a Number once,” Reese said as Harold quickened his pace, “that editor, her former co-worker wanted to ruin her life for rejecting his advances when she was already in an established relationship.”

John and Harold entered Reese’s apartment a few minutes later, and Harold’s eyes were drooping with fatigue. It had been a long day, and as soon as he sat down on the sofa John hurried to the kitchen to fetch his friend a glass of water. Bear sniffed around and lay down in his bed, gnawing on one of his toys before promptly falling asleep.  
Harold dug around in his bag for the medication and swallowed it with two large gulps of water. He put the neatly wrapped present on the table in front of him and looked at it curiously. Reese hovered at his shoulder, looking far more suspicious than anything else. There was a small note, which read: For Mr. Raven, thank you and your partner for all your help.

The package revealed a metal tiepin in the shape of a small bird with its wings outstretched and large leather bound sketchbook. After a few moments, in which Harold made sure that the tiepin did not have a GPS tracker or anything of the sort, he stepped back and pocketed it, looking pleased.  
Harold handed John the sketchbook, which he took with a tiny smile. It had been years since he had drawn something just for pleasure.  
“Sit down on the sofa,” John said gently; putting the sketchbook on the dining room table after browsing through it, “I am going to get a few things. There are some books and magazines you can look through.”

When John looked back in the doorway, on his way to get an electrical heating blanket and the washbasin, he saw that Harold was not looking through the crime fiction or the history books he had liberated from the Library, but some magazine John had grabbed from a waiting room when tailing one of the Numbers, some months ago. There was a blanket around his shoulders, and Harold tugged at it at random intervals, clearly cold.  
John decided that it would be a good idea to make him some tea, so he put the electrical kettle on while he looked through the cabinets in the bathroom for the Epsom salts and soap while the washbasin filled with hot water. When it become clear that it would take some time for the water to get to an adequate temperature, John headed back to the kitchen to make himself some coffee. While he was using the French Press that had mysteriously arrived in his kitchen after Harold had visited him the fifth time, he heard Harold humming from the living room.  
When John had placed the washbasin on an old towel on the floor in front of Harold, who seemed totally engrossed in his research on women’s fashion, the kettle whistled and John dashed into the kitchen. Harold had taken off his jacket and shoes, and even loosened his tie, John thought as he looked at his friend.

“What is this washbasin doing here?” Harold asked, staring at the thing in front of his feet, which were shaking slightly. He put the magazine aside as John handed him a steaming cup of tea.  
“I have no idea,” John answered, “it came with the apartment. It is for you.”  
Harold moved his whole body to look at John, who had sat down on the sofa next to him, sipping his coffee.  
“You usually put your feet in the water,” John said, teasing, “I put some Epsom salts in there.”  
Harold made a small, grateful noise and sighed when he put his feet into the hot water after taking his socks off. John plugged in the electrical blanket and handed it to his friend, who patted his shoulder and placed the blanket between his lower back and the back of the sofa before leaning back.  
“Thank you, John,” Harold breathed, closing his eyes. There was a short silence, in which the two men sat side by side, as they had done so many times, drinking tea and coffee.  
The magazine was open on an article about nail polish and makeup. John knew about foundation and concealer, as he had seen Kara put it on many times, in many bathrooms. She had smeared some on his arms and hands sometimes, to conceal the scars.  
“Good articles?” John asked, and felt Harold tense up the tiniest bit beside him, his breath sharp. Then Harold relaxed and several emotions flickered in his eyes, too fast for John to read. Finch looked at him, as if trying to decide if John was teasing or making fun of him in any way, but John just looked kind.  
“I have always been a bit curious about these things,” Harold said, after a pause, his voice so careful that John felt his hand twitch.  
John looked at the images, at the bottles of color and various brushes, along with an array of powders and such.  
“It’s a bit like art,” John said, watching the strange way Harold was looking at him, like he was memorizing this moment to store it away forever. Harold nodded, and John pulled the huge blanket that only partially covered Harold’s shoulders.  
“This is a large blanket,” Harold ventured, “perhaps you would like to share it with me?”  
“That would be nice,” John said, his voice equally careful, equally respectful. He put the blanket over his own shoulders, and Harold fixed it so that it covered them both equally. Harold sipped his tea, and John put his arm carefully around Harold’s shoulders.  
Harold glanced at him before relaxing into the touch. Perhaps this was a good start, John thought as Harold edged slightly closer to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been drafting this chapter for a long, long time. I would really like to see your opinions on this chapter. :)

Harold closed her eyes and breathed out, and then reached down and lifted the large cardboard box onto one of the tables between the stacks in the Library. She felt downright giddy with excitement, but decided to leave the box here until the time was right, until she was ready. It was evening, and she could see the clouds gathering up when she glanced out the window.  
She limped over to her workstation and began digging around in her computer bag, finding the small copper colored bag in one of the pockets, hidden away. Earlier that day she had been in a small drugstore, stocking up on medical tape, gauze and heating cream for her neck and back when she had glanced aside and seen several kinds of makeup on a display stand. She did not want to walk into some store that had a makeup-counter and receive a makeover, or tips from ladies she did not know about how to put on makeup. Instead she had researched, watching how-to videos on Youtube and read various articles both online and in magazines that John had around his apartment for some reason.

She had spent some time browsing in the stands for essentials that she had read about that were sold everywhere around the country and were affordable as well as relatively high quality. She had selected two lip-gloss balms in soft pink and two tubes of BB cream and foundation. In the end she also added some concealer, thinking that even if she would never allow herself to wear any of the others outside of the house; she could use the concealer to look less tired around the eyes. Harold could see her hands shaking slightly when she looked at the shade of the concealer to see if it matched her pale skin. An eyebrow pencil in light brown made its way into the basket, before Harold could convince herself not to buy it.

Harold had never done anything like this before, never allowing herself to admit to herself just how much she wanted to try to see how she would look like if she tried to look more female than male on those days she felt like this. It had always been the tiniest of hints, only visible to herself. For years that had been all that she had dared to do, afraid of the attention the world would give her if she tried anything out of the strict boundaries of what was considered to be normal.  
The phone rang in her pocket as she put the last of the makeup in the basket, and she lifted it up to her ear after seeing that it was John.  
“Hello, John,” she had said, “it is so good to hear from you. I am in the drugstore, getting that medical tape for you. I do wish that you would try to be more careful in your work.”  
“Hey Harold,” John had said, sounding cheerful, and Harold could hear chatter around him and the faint sound of dogs barking, “I am in the dog park with Bear, since we didn’t have a Number today. Do you want to come over to my place for dinner?”  
“Yes,” Harold had said, sounding happy even to her own ears, “it would be very nice to have a quiet dinner. These last weeks have been harrowing, to say the least. Has Bear been behaving himself, playing with the other dogs?”  
“He’s right in front of me, playing with a bichon frise puppy,” John had replied, “I’ll see you at my place in an hour?”  
“I have to head back to the Library to get some of my things and then I will be on my way. See you later, John,” Harold had said and hung up when she heard John hum in agreement.  
The cashier had nodded at her, looking approving. Harold paid for her purchases and made her way back to the Library, taking in the beautiful day.

Harold had also bought some new perfume, which smelled light and subtle with a hint of jasmine. She had seen the question in the cashier’s eyes as she had paid for the makeup, but the lady had not said anything. She had placed the perfume bottle beside her aftershave bottles instead of behind them in the closet when she came into the small bathroom in the Library and felt her heart skip a beat. There was a chance that John would see it, but the part of her that told her how dangerous this was, how she should just continue to keep a low profile was a mere mumble in her mind and she ignored it.

She inspected the copper colored bag before opening it and taking out the makeup, one item at a time and placing them in front of her in a line. She took off her glasses and began applying the foundation with the foundation brush which was a part of a set of brushes Shaw seemed to have forgotten in the bathroom, still in the plastic.  
She’d buy Shaw a new one, Harold decided as she continued to apply the foundation with as much care as she would use when coding. Harold watched her reflection in the mirror, her skin tone looked far more even now, she thought as she penciled in her eyebrows with light strokes, like she had seen in dozens of makeup tutorial videos. Then she put a small dab of jasmine scented cream on her palm and smeared it behind her ears where her glasses dug into the skin. Finally, she applied a single coat of lip gloss balm, a shade darker than her lips, but so subtle that one had to look to see that it was there. Baby steps, she told herself and closed the bag after putting everything back inside.

As she stepped out the door, computer bag slung over her shoulders and a light scarf around her neck, she crushed the urge to run back to the bathroom and wipe all evidence of makeup off her face. Instead she closed the door firmly behind her and began walking towards the car.

Harold could smell cooking as soon as she arrived on John’s floor. She could hear Bear running around inside the apartment, probably playing with his new tennis ball. She could also hear John singing along with the radio, some old love song that she had not heard in a very long time.  
She knocked on the door, and after a few seconds John opened the door, wearing a green apron and a large grin.  
“The pizza is in the oven,” John said, watching Harold pet an exited Bear, who was wagging his tail and showing Harold his tennis ball. “It’s homemade. You don’t mind pizza?”  
“Pizza sounds good,” Harold said, taking off her coat and scarf and hanging them both in the closet. “It has been years since I’ve had homemade pizza.”  
“Years?”John asked, sounding mildly scandalized, “that sounds horrible, Harold. No one has made you pizza?”  
“I am not as experienced as you are in the kitchen, Mr. Reese,” Harold replied, “and there was never any time, it seemed, in these past years, for such an experience. Nathan once tried to make homemade pizza for me when I helped him with an assignment in college. Almost burned down the kitchen.”  
“Good thing I’m here now,” John said fondly, touching Harold’s shoulder affectionately, “someone must take care of you. And you keep saving my life and buying me medical tape, so I will return the favor and take care of you.”  
“Yes, well,” Harold blurted out, feeling unsure about what to say in response, “is there anything I can do to be of assistance?”  
John looked at her, as if searching her face for something. Harold knew that he could see her makeup. John used to be an international spy, she reminded herself. She tried to smile at him, but felt that she had failed at that somehow. 

“I am just cleaning up,” he said, his voice kind, “could you set the table?”  
“Of course,” Harold replied automatically, turning away from John. She picked up two plates and felt her heart sink, on the verge of abandoning her plans of telling John about her gender fluidity. Bear leaned on her good leg, his ears pinned down.  
“You look nice,” John said, “did you put some kind of a cream on your face?”  
“Oh,” Harold said, placing the plates on the dining room table,”you could say so. I’m glad you like it. Do you have something to drink with the pizza?”  
“I have some beer, apple juice, and a strange green smoothie that my neighbor gave to me, and some water,” John said,”take your pick. The smoothie tastes like pine needles.”  
“When was the last time you ate pine needles, Mr. Reese?” Harold asked, selecting two cups from the cupboard and placing them on the table. “That does not seem like a tasty meal.”  
“It’s not,” John said, fiddling with the knobs on the old fashioned radio that Harold recognized as being one that she had bought years ago and had added to the apartment as a last minute decision, „they stab you in the roof of your mouth and washing them down with snow is not an improvement. Don’t get lost in a storm in Norway, Harold.”  
“I’ll try to remember that,” Harold replied and turned around to see John pulling on oven mitts decorated with paw prints. Harold limped towards Bear and found the container of kibble in one of the closets. Harold changed Bear’s water and dumped two cups of kibble into his food bowl. Bear wagged his tail in gratitude and dug in.

John cut the pizza into generous slices and selected two for himself, stepping aside to let Harold do the same. If Harold’s fingers lingered on John’s elbow to steady herself for several seconds too long John made no mention of it.  
Harold found herself blushing when John sat down and lifted his glass of apple juice and clinked it against her glass. The pizza tasted wonderful, and the sounds around her were domestic and calming, the music was a classic piano piece, and Bear was drinking water a few steps to her right. She could hear the wind howling outside, and was glad that she was inside and warm as the cold made her hip throb.  
“I know it’s not the best steak in the city,” John said, biting into the pizza, “but I made sure that Bear approved of all the toppings. There are vanilla and caramel cupcakes in the oven for dessert.”  
Harold smiled. She bit into her pizza slice, the warm cheese was chewy and the sauce was the perfect mix of mild and spicy. She could see that John was watching her, but he pretended to be engrossed in finishing off his slice.  
“It sounds like you are trying to serenade me, John,” Harold said lightly, smiling over her glass of apple juice.  
“Is it working?” John asked, placing his second slice down on the plate, his expression serious, although she could hear that he had tried to make it playful.  
“Yes,” Harold answered simply, nodding. She could see the glimmer of hope in John’s eyes turn into wonder as he smiled at her and she reached for his hand, which lay on the table, motionless.  
Their fingers interlaced. John’s hand was calloused and covered in medical tape, but it was warm in her hand and neither of them could stop smiling. They continued eating with only one hand, biting into their slices and drinking.  
After they had finished eating they took care of the dirty dishes, arms brushing as John washed them and Harold dried them, in perfect unison.

They moved to the living room, listening to Bear’s snores and the music that wafted through the air.  
“Can I kiss you?” John asked, his voice unbearably gentle, his hands on Harold’s waistcoat, just brushing the fabric as if Harold was the most precious thing John could think of.  
Harold nodded, her hand on John’s shoulder. The first kiss was chaste, their lips brushing softly. John leaned his forehead against her own, his eyes closed. Harold leaned in and kissed John until they both ran out of air, grabbing his lapels. John held her close as if he was afraid that she would disappear if he let her go. They stood there for a while, kissing gently and tenderly, smiling helplessly at each other when they looked at each other as they parted.  
They sat down on the couch, holding hands. 

This had been a long time coming, Harold thought, as John huffed out a happy laugh and Bear came to them, wagging his tail madly, clearly elated. She had known John for a long time now, and they had been flirting with each other for years.  
She thought of Nathan’s bewildered expression when he had found Harold’s perfume bottle in their shared bathroom closet back at college. It was a tiny bottle, from a nearby drugstore. She remembered her classmates narrowing their eyes when she had tried putting on nail polish for the first time.

“John,” she said, and saw him sit straighter up, all attention, "I think that it would be appropriate that you should know something about me, before we start…this. Forgive me, I’ve never told anyone this before.”  
“It’s alright, Harold,” John said softly, “I’m not going to run for the hills.”  
She could feel his thumb stroking over her knuckles.  
“Some days,” she began, „some days I feel that I am more…female than male. I wake up and am a woman, or not entirely male. I have felt like this all my life, but recently I have felt secure enough to admit it to myself and have been experimenting with makeup and such.”  
John blinked. Harold touched her face, feeling the thin layer of foundation on her cheek. She wanted to run, and could feel her ears and neck turning red.  
“I understand if this is too much, and if you want to reconsider your relationship with me,” she continued, too far in now to stop, the words dragged from within her core, “I admit that I would not want that, but-“  
“Some days you are a lady?” John asked, and Harold could see the cogwheels in his head whirring, looking at the side part in her hair, at the faint traces of lip gloss on her lips.  
“Yes,” Harold said, “such as right now.”  
John nodded, but he did not let go of her hand or move away in any way. Instead he put an arm around her shoulders.  
“I might need more explanations,” John said, “but I won’t stop loving you because of your gender identity, Harold. You haven’t stopped being you. To me, it just sounds like that I have a boyfriend some days and a girlfriend on other days. But they are both the same person.”  
Harold could feel tears threatening to surface and tried to swallow, but John placed an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into his chest. He held her for a long time. She dried her tears with the handkerchief in her front pocket and John made soft noises.  
John managed to save the cupcakes, and they ate them on the couch, listening to the rain outside, the songs on the radio and each other’s breathing.


	4. Chapter 4

It had all started, the idea of being able, even in little ways, to express himself when he was feeling more female than male, Harold thought as he walked through the streets of New York City in the crisp morning air, with a single bottle of mint-green nail polish. 

 

He had been nine years old, sitting on the floor of his classmate’s room after tutoring her in English and Math and after she had shown him instead how to make a compartment in his schoolbag so that he could hide food in his schoolbag so that even if the bullies would upend his bag on the linoleum floor of the hallway his lunch bag would stay interact and not drop out or get stolen. If the bullies could not find it and it was not apparent in his bag it would not get stolen and he would be able to eat lunch in peace.

The girl had been even tinier than he was, clad in hand-me-downs and second hand clothes like him. Her mint green dress was far too big on her just like his flannel shirt was far too baggy. Young Harold had thanked her for the advice.

They were called down to dinner by her mother, who was a single mother whose husband had just up and left town one day and never returned, who had smiled in a welcoming way at Harold when he had shown up on her doorstep with his faded schoolbag and new, cheap glasses and told her that he was here to study with her daughter. Now she handed him a plate filled with mashed potatoes and some chicken and vegetables, more food on one plate than Harold usually had in a whole day as he was the one who was now in charge of buying all the groceries and it would not look good if he would buy a lot at a time, so that he tried his best to get some staples of a good diet whenever he went to the store.

He took the dish and thanked her, distantly aware of the fact that he was eating too fast. In order to try to cover it up he had tried to take breaks in between bites of food to drink the cold water in his glass, but was not sure if he had been successful. After dinner, the mother of his friend had suggested that since their homework was done they could play a bit before Harold had to go home. It was Friday, her mother had said, so that as there was no school tomorrow they could play a little longer than if had been a school night.

His classmate looked a smidgen uneasy when Harold entered her shabby bedroom again, but quickly recovered and dug out a small glass of something mint green and showed it to him and told him that her sister had taught her to paint her nails. She had shown him how to do it by painting her own nails and using a strong-smelling liquid to clean up her mistakes. He had looked at her nails, like shiny seashells, he thought, with admiration, which she evidently noticed.

“Do you want me to paint yours, Harold?” the little girl had asked, as if it was the most natural question in the world. And Harold had felt his heart miss a beat and heard himself agree before he could stop himself, before he could rationalize why he should say no.

And so, his nails got painted mint-green. It was a pain-staking process, but afterwards after they had been cleaned up a bit, he could barely keep his eyes away. He had looked at his classmate and stammered slightly as he thanked her and left the house a few minutes after his nails had dried.   
Harold, in the present, could feel the pleased blush on his cheeks as he recalled the memory of the little girl in the doorway of her shabby house waving goodbye with glimmering green nails that matched her dress. He remembered spending the weekend randomly looking down at his nails, trying, and failing at keeping the polish from chipping and admiring how they looked and marveling at how nice they made him feel.

 

And if Harold bought a bottle of mint-green nail polish on a whim when he passed a small pharmacy, who was to say anything, he told himself as he put the small plastic bag containing the bottle into his computer bag. He was allowed to do little things like that for himself, for future use.  
When Harold reached the Library he found Shaw already there, drinking coffee and unwrapping a sandwich that looked to Harold to be something one would only order if one was so hungry that thinking straight had become a significant problem. It was huge. Bear was snoring in his basket, a ragged tennis ball at his paws. It was covered with dog hair. He would have to convince Reese to help him brush Bear later on.

“Good morning, Finch,” Shaw said, clearly imitating Mr. Reese’s voice and grinning at him.   
He smiled faintly at her, acknowledging the joke.

“We haven’t got a Number yet, but Root is feeling hopeful and went out to get herself some fancy new laptop or something like that. Reese is at a yoga class or something like that,” she told Harold, looking at him as he took the little bottle of nail polish out of the bag and put beside a notepad before heading back towards Shaw.  
He could see Shaw glancing at it, but thought that she might just assume he was probably going to use it as a part of a mission or to color-code something so he decided not to say anything about it. No excuses, he told himself, explanations were fine and to be encouraged and given freely, but he was not going to excuse himself.

It was an oddly peaceful environment, Harold thought walked leisurely towards his friend. He was aware of the concealer beneath his eyes and the faint traces of BB-cream on his face, both of which he had put on this morning before leaving the house, as he did feel masculine today, but almost equally as feminine and looking more refreshed than tired was always a plus.  
Reese had left a cup of Sencha Green tea on one of the tables and a paper plate on which was a perfect ham and cheese omelet and several slices of a fresh tomato. The omelet was still warm and fresh. Harold sat down in the seat against Shaw, who had succeed in opening the bag and was now holding a huge mug of coffee in one hand and a sandwich in the other. It become clear to him that Shaw, who had helped him with makeup before very recently, could see that he was wearing makeup, not just because she was a trained operative, but also because she was a lady who knew quite a lot about such things.

“So you’re a chick sometimes?” Shaw asked casually, biting into a large sandwich, sitting at one of the tables in the Library. She slid the on-the-go cup of Sencha green tea towards Harold, who was sitting in the armchair on the other side of the table. 

“Sometimes,” Harold said, taking a tentative sip of his tea. This was going relatively well, he thought as Shaw stared at him with a thoughtful look on her face and then nodded, as if to herself more than him. Then she took another bite of her sandwich and continued chewing.

“Okay,” she said, “that is fine. I kinda figured. I wondered why there was an extra makeup bag in the bathroom here and why it was in the colors that Root doesn’t actually use. It’s far more subtle than the products she uses and doesn’t match my skin tone at all, so no one had bought it for me.”  
Harold found himself nodding, not quite believing that telling her had been this easy. He watched Shaw continue eating her sandwich, in an almost absentminded manner. He took several sips of his tea to try to calm down. 

“It has taken some time to…accept this,” Harold ventured, “I did not grow up in a time where this was ever spoken of-“  
Harold was not sure what he could say, or what would make sense. Shaw was his friend, he reminded himself. She was a very dangerous person and a skilled doctor of medicine too, and would understand the dangers of outing oneself as something other than what was socially expected of a person of his age.

“No worries, Harold,” Shaw said, gesturing towards him with her coffee cup, “if someone tries to mess with you about this I’ll kick their asses. So will Reese. You can ask if you want me to help you with makeup or something, if we have some sort of a mission where you have to be extra fancy-”

“I’ll take that in to account, Miss Shaw,” Harold said, cutting into his omelet and smiling, “thank you for your support.”

Shaw snorted, as if she was mildly offended by the insinuation that she would be anything else. But there was a friendly glint in her eyes.

 

When Reese came into the Library he found Shaw painting Harold’s nails and talking animatedly about a former assignment.  
“And then,” Shaw said, applying the last coat of the clear top coat on Harold’s right pinky finger, “ I thought: ‘screw it, this guy is a total creep and a serial killer,’ and stabbed him with the fish fork right in the middle of his hand, right here, and it went straight through his hand so that it stuck to the table-“

“Such a pity to be at a formal dinner and have to fraternize with such people,” Harold replied, waving his hands around in an attempt to dry the nail polish, which was green, faster. “Especially if they are so rude-. Oh, good morning, Mr. Reese. We have a new Number.”

Reese put his gym bag on the floor of the library by one of the book shelves that contained Scandinavian history novels and nonfiction books. Then he looked at the glass board. 

“Birgitta Hjort and Daniel Larssen,” an extremely wealthy Danish couple who moved here 15 years ago to work as architects, as they had become famed for their work in their home country. Both are from well-to-do families and appear to have several enemies due to their success.”

“Here in the city or just back home?” John asked, furrowing his brow. “Do we know if they have any family members that would want to harm them?”

“They are both from Jutland, but worked in Copenhagen after attending University. They are both only children and high-school, or should I say, _gymnasium_ sweethearts. Most of their enemies are their former colleagues back in Denmark. Their online footprint is extremely small, although Birgitta has a facebook account we will have to go into the field as we barely have any information on them from their stay in the States. Everything we have that could be considered substantial has been in Danish.”

Reese wondered if the couple spoke Copenhagen-Danish or the more traditional Danish of their hometowns.

“More specifically,” Harold continued, “we will go to the wellness-center they are staying at for this weekend to find out more about them. As I understand, they are also undergoing couples' counseling.”

“Harold, I am not going to use that yoga instructor cover,” Shaw said, looking angry. “If we are going to a spa, I’m not going to be stretching in front of anyone.” 

“That is why Mr. Reese is going to be the visiting yoga teacher,” Harold replied without a hitch and looked at Reese, who looked elated at the prospect, “You are going to be the head of makeup, Sameen as the lady who usually has that position is on vacation as she just won a all-expenses paid hotel stay at a luxury hotel in Hawaii. Root is going to fill in for the IT girl who is on maternity leave. And I am a VIP guest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gymnasium is a Danish academic upper secondary program (school) and leads up to the upper secondary school examination. It is a type of secondary school, usually for people aged 15-20.
> 
> Modern Copenhagen Danish, to me as a foreigner and someone who studied Danish for 8 years is far more difficult than the Danish that is spoken elsewhere in Denmark, as the Copenhagen Danish has many abbreviations and a lot of slang that I do not understand. It may be different for someone else, this is just my opinion.


End file.
